


Family

by TrulyCertain



Series: I like big plots and I cannot lie (Kink Meme prompts) [11]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Brother-Sister Dynamic, Cousins, Drunkenness, Friendship, Gen, plot-without-porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-16 02:28:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyCertain/pseuds/TrulyCertain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He moved to stand behind her, frowning as he read the parchment over her shoulder. "Revka... Leandra... Oh." He raised an eyebrow. "And?"</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"He's there. Kirkwall," she reminded him with a sigh, seeming uncharacteristically nervous. "Garrett Hawke. The Champion. My..." She swallowed. "My cousin," she finished softly, still digesting it.</i>
</p><p>Written for k!meme prompt: "King Alistair had another reason for visiting Kirkwall, he is supporting his best friend and warden commander as he/she meets their long lost cousin. However, while A!A can cover the meeting between Hawke and Amell, I'd like the stuff before that, where Alistair supports Amell as they think about meeting their cousin or even talks them into it. Can't be worse than Goldanna, right?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ferelden

To them, she was the Warden Commander. Tough, loud, bloody scary at times.

To him, she was Solona, his advisor and his  _friend_ , and she was looking at him like she'd just discovered a new Ferelden.

"Look," she said, sitting up and taking her feet off the desk. "Look what it says!"

He moved to stand behind her, frowning as he read the parchment over her shoulder. "Revka... Leandra...  _Oh_." He raised an eyebrow. "And?"

" _He's_  there. Kirkwall," she reminded him with a sigh, seeming uncharacteristically nervous. "Garrett Hawke. The Champion. My..." She swallowed. "My cousin," she finished softly, still digesting it.

The only piece of family she had, he realized suddenly. What with the Tower and the Blight, there had never been much time to check the records, until now. This was all so...  _new._

She put a palm to her mouth, leaning an elbow on the desk. "I want... I want to meet him. I think I  _need_  to. But... what if it's like Goldanna?"

He shut his eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly - Maker, that had been... awful - then opened them again, resting a hand reassuringly on her shoulder. "Can't be as bad. As I recall, Hawke actually has  _money_." His lip twisted, and she looked up at him in concern. "Sorry. It's still a little raw."

The Blight was barely over. The memories of the two of them standing outside that little house, her desperately trying to reassure him with absolutely  _no_  knowledge of the situation... They were still fresh. Still more than a little painful.

* * *

He'd been in a state; instead of his usual... well,  _rambling_ , he'd been silent, sullen, only looking up from the floor as he realized that she'd pushed him into the Gnawed Noble. Oh,  _great._  The place where principles came to die.

She led him to a seat, left him there, and come back bearing two large tankards. There had been a loud  _clak_  of metal against wood as she'd put it down a little more loudly than necessary before him, muttered, "Here."

It hadn't been long before he was grinning, gesturing wildly with his hands, brimming with humour and incredibly interesting stories. Well, to him, anyway. "And then... then Little Langdon..." He trailed off, having lost his end of the story. "Ah, never mind."

She leaned back in her seat, lookied at the ceiling, then at him. "Look, about this whole Goldanna thing..." She cleared her throat. "Frankly, I've no bloody clue. Never had a family before. But I do now."

He frowned at her, silent, uncomprehending.

"I'm a Warden now. And you're my brother. And it feels that way." She paused."You  _have_  a family, if you want it. I'm here."

He'd been so drunk that this speech, at the time, had seemed to make absolute sense, and not surprised him in the least.

He'd lost a sister (well, a  _half_ -sister, his mind corrected him, pedantically).

But he'd found one that day, too.

* * *

"If you want to meet him... just  _go._ "

She interrupted him. "I'm  _scared_ , Alistair. I've faced down a fucking Archdemon, and I'm scared of meeting  _one man_. He's... he's all the family I have left, and if  _he_  doesn't want to know me..."

He remembered her speech in the Gnawed Noble, what it had cost her, and tried to give her words back to her. "Then there's me," he said firmly, sitting on the guest's chair. "There's  _always_  been me."

"But..."

"This is a chance to know who your  _family_  are, Sol. It might never happen otherwise." He stopped, words deserting him. "It will go  _well_ ," he told her, trying his best to be soothing, voice hardening as he added, "Or he'll have me to answer to." Grey Warden. Trained templar.  _King_  (Why was that always last on his priority list?). Yes, that should be impressive enough.

"You'll be here...  _kinging_ ," she countered, dismayed. "There's nothing you  _could_  do."

"That's the thing," he said, beaming. "I've been thinking. It might be time for some royal travel..." He paused, thought back to his schedule. "Don't I have a meeting with Kirkwall's  _lovely_  Knight-Commander that needs arranging?"

She looked at him, wide-eyed and strangely vulnerable in her surprise. She had been, for once,  _open_  all through this talk, and he was still waiting for her to laugh it off, try and kick his arse for him, be her usual stubborn-to-the-end self.

Eventually, after some thought, speech seemed to return to her. "You're Ferelden's _ruler_. That usually means you need to be  _in Ferelden,_  not dashing off for a quick holiday. You're not  _Cailan._ "

He couldn't stop the tiny, almost invisible wince - anyone else, anyone who hadn't had to share his company for a year, would have missed it.

She bit her lip, obviously knowing it had struck home, but stared him in the face and made no move to apologise.

She was trying to change the subject (with a  _low_  blow), and if he let her, she'd bottle it up. He'd simply never hear of it again. But he knew her. She'd  _wonder_  and regret and  _resent_  until her last breath, because she was  _Solona._

He sighed, looking at her with his best "trust me, I'm reasonable" face, all earnest honesty and just a  _small_ , subtle dash of "I  _do_  rule a country, you know". It tended to work reasonably well on the nobles. "Listen," he said, slowly and calmly, "I haven't been out of the grounds in..." He thought back, and muttered a low, "Maker's  _breath._ " A disbelieving pause, and then he continued, "In a month. I honestly think I prefer darkspawn to  _paperwork._  It's not exactly like I've been seeing much. Or..." He rolled the word round experimentally in his mouth, trying it out for size. "... 'Kinging'."

She glared at him. "Stop using the puppy eyes on me. It won't work."

_Damn._  Wait, his cunning grasp of diplomacy was now "puppy eyes"?

"Solona..." he began, exasperated. He saw her start to watch him warily at the use of her full name, a habit only of the Circle's templars, the royal guard, and Wynne - who was possibly more formidable than either of the above. "You're _going._  And I'm coming with."

After a long, deliberating silence, her face softened, and she nodded. "But if this goes tits-up, I'm blaming you." She looked him over. "And  _please_ , introduce yourself as king, not...  _yourself_."

He still frequently forgot to. He was always "Alistair" in his head, something he doubted would ever change, and it kept somehow falling out of his mouth. The "King" apparently supposed to go in front of it was still alien in his mind, and he just  _couldn't_  introduce himself as "King Alistair". Talking about himself in the third person was far too...  _Flemeth._

"I.... think it gives me an appearance of honesty with my subjects," he protested weakly.

"Hmm." Her voice was sceptical. "'You see, this bloke Al, he's sort of king. Nice enough fellow, good to go down the pub with, couldn't hold a Landsmeet to save his life.'" She shook her head. "If you do that with Meredith, she'll eat you alive. Have you  _heard_  what the Marchers say about her?"

He nodded wearily, raising a hand to his brow. "But look what the Fereldans say about  _you._ "

She looked at him with a smile he could only call, well... wolfish. "Oh, they just don't know about my sweet centre."

He raised his eyebrows in silence, the words not needing to be said.

She looked away, biting the inside of her lip, as she thought. "Meredith, however..." She trailed off, her tone serious. "Nothing but steel there." She stood, shuffling the pile of parchment on his desk and putting a few aside that seemed to catch her eye. "You have another meeting with Alfstanna." She looked up, eyes mischievous. "I think she has her eye on you."

He stared at her in horrified surprise. "She... what?"

Solona coughed into her hand, smile never falling, then looked at him as if he were an idiot. "The excuses to come here? The sudden Orlesian dresses for meetings?" She rolled her eyes. "The same way you missed Leliana's advances compl- _ete_ -ly."

" _What_  'advances'?" he asked. "There  _weren't_  any, or I'm pretty sure I would have..."

She cut him off, adopting a low, surprisingly accurate Orlesian accent. "'Oh, I should have known. You have Cailan and Maric's looks, how did I miss it?'" A pause for thought, and she continued, "'I always thought that training at the Chantry was very...  _strenuous._  The templars must have been in fine shape to carry on in such a way...'" She wiggled her eyebrows comically, and he grimaced.

"I just thought she was... asking a question... And..."

She shook her head, patting him reassuringly on the shoulder as she moved to leave. "There, there. You'll learn." She walked on, with a quiet, muttered, "You'll have to, if Ferelden has any hope of a royal line."

"I  _heard that!_ " he called after her, his tone one of false outrage.

"I know," she replied. "I'm taking lunch in Denerim. You know where to find me."

He turned his eyes heavenwards with a sigh. Never mind the sumptuously supplied palace kitchens, the food even from Antiva; the Hero of Ferelden was one of the Gnawed Noble's most valued customers."Good for noble gossip," she'd called it, adding as an afterthought, "Ale isn't bad either."

He watched her go, worried despite himself. She had good enough chances against an ogre, but the chance of a family?

He let out a breath of epiphany, raising his head from his hands, as it came to him, and grabbed a piece of papyrus.

_Hawke,_  he began.

No, too informal, even with the subject matter; he crossed it out, frowning and chewing his cheek.

_Champion -_

Yes, that was more like it.


	2. Kirkwall

"Garrett?"  
  
Aveline's call echoed through the Amell mansion, the Guard-Captain following it through the house.  
  
She found him sitting on his writing desk, frowning at a piece of parchment, his expression unreadable.  
  
"Garrett?" she tried again, more gently this time.  
  
He jumped and looked up, startled, the expression slightly comical on a man who was normally so imposing. "Av." He hastily fumbled to fold the letter in half, shoving it back on to the writing desk - she watched the panicky motions of his hands with bemusement and not a little worry - before giving her a wide, unconvincing smile. "What can I do for you, my lovely?"  
  
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Hawke, what's going on?"  
  
The sound of his now-famous surname and a cross-armed, suspicious Aveline were enough to batter him into submission. "I..." He steepled his hands, tapping his fingers together. "Well," he told the wall, studiously not looking at her, "Mother..." That still made him swallow, words stuttering to a halt. Too recent, too fresh; that wound was still bleeding. "She always said the Hero Of Ferelden was one of ours - in the family tree, if you understand, a, a cousin, I think. I've received, ah, a missive. From the king."  
  
The surprise was enough to break her posture, her hands falling to her sides. "The - "  
  
_"The king._  Yes,  _that_  king, Aveline, there's only one who knows the Hero Of Ferelden personally."  
  
"He said this in his letter?"  
  
He nodded. "Solona Amell would like to arrange a meeting, if possible, when the two of them are in Kirkwall."  
  
"Well, that's... quite something."  
  
Garrett's tone was not altogether joyful as he replied, "Yes, it  _is,_  isn't it." He met her eye. "Av, I'll have to find something _embroidered_ , and  _you_  try projecting a noble, Champion-of-Kirkwall aura when you have a King and a Warden-Commander sizing you up..."  
  
" _Garrett,_ " she sighed, resisting the urge to add,  _shut up_  - he was off on a tangent again, attempting to distract her with inconsequential details and bumbling. "Are you meeting them?"  
  
"Well,  _yes_ ," he said, as if it was obvious (but then, who  _would_  pass up the chance to meet a Hero and a king?). "I just... may need my brown trousers."

* * *

Solona stood on the deck, watching the rolling waves and trying very hard to keep what food she'd managed to consume in her stomach. (If only Anders were here; he'd fix something up that would solve this roiling in her gut - but then, she didn't think about Anders. Safer not to. There were far too many memories she wasn't at all interested in reliving there.)  
  
"Seasick, or nervous-sick?"   
  
Alistair joined her, giving her a fond smile, and she glared at him. He raised his hands in mock-surrender. "Oh, I forgot, the formidable Warden Commander isn't allowed to be splashing her guts all over the side of the ship." He looked down at the waves, swallowing. "But then, neither is the king," he muttered, and then met her eye. "I remember the first time I went on a ship." He winced. "Let's just say it wasn't pretty."  
  
That brought the ghost of a smile from her, even with the nausea and the fear that had had her on edge and snapping at the men for far too much of the journey. Five letters, two months of hastily-made arrangements and now here they were, on a ship to the City Of Chains. She still remembered pieces of the letters, lines in particular.  
  
_I would be pleased to make her acquaintance._  Formal and a little cold, with small, tight, immaculately neat handwriting that instantly made her think the sender was a control freak. Maker's  _balls_ , she was going to end up with an anal-retentive cousin who went round sweeping the carpets after she'd walked on them and glaring at her for any footprints.  
  
She couldn't even find the energy to make a jab back; she just stared down at the sea with her heart - and her last meal - in her throat. "What if he's a bastard? An honest-to-the-Maker, truly cold-blooded bastard?"  
  
She expected him to sigh, to roll his eyes and tell her to get over it - they'd been through this several times. He grinned at her. "Then he'll be able to tell everyone about the time he was decked by a king. It should make a nice story at dinner parties."  
  
That raised a true smile from her. "I bloody love you sometimes."  
  
Now he  _did_  sigh, his gaze turning to the sea. "Don't let Eamon hear you say that. He'll start banging on about heirs and the good of Ferelden, and my duty to my country... Apparently I should find myself a good woman without magical powers and tainted blood. Who knew?"  
  
The words were in jest; they both knew it had never been like that between them. They were siblings in more than darkspawn blood. It  _was_  like Eamon to say such things, however, and he  _had_  been saying them.  
  
"Alistair, you have kitchens and twice your own weight in gold, and you're being actively  _encouraged_  to sleep with beautiful women..."  
  
"Such hardship," he quipped, but his gaze was still on the waves, his words quiet and his smile bitter.  
  
She put a hand on his shoulder. "I know. But there's a reason I chose you. You're a strong bugger, you can deal with this."  
  
"I suppose I am," he murmured, seeming surprised at what he was saying.  
  
She patted his shoulder. "Good boy." She looked over at the sailors working behind them. "Now, do you think getting blackout drunk is a good cure for seasickness?"  
  
"Solona, it's your cure for  _everything._ "  
  
She cocked her head, considering it. "True. Effective, though."

* * *

The Kirkwall docks had been thronging, and Solona had winced at the crowds, but a group of templars had escorted her, Alistair and the guard through and into the city itself.  
  
Alistair had sighed after those few steps, raising a hand to bring their little party to a stop. "I need to meet the Viscount, but I won't put you through that. At least not yet. I... assume you'll see things better from the ground, so if you want to go and take stock of the city, I'm not stopping you."  
  
She'd patted him on the cheek. "You know me too well. Go and impress Dumar. And  _don't_  tell him you've got a better crown than his, that never goes down well with swell-headed idiots. Buy me a drink after?"  
  
He'd nodded. "Of course. You'll meet me at the Keep?"  
  
"Of course," she'd countered. "Fare thee well, my good king, and don't make yourself look like too much of a git."  
  
The royal guard hadn't even blinked at such behaviour. Solona had camped with him, seen him cry and had once had to wash his socks; by now, formality was too much to ask. He'd carried on, and she'd been left to wend her own personal way through the city.  
  
It had been interesting, and sometimes it had made her a little uneasy; the fact there was a regularly used poison seller in plain sight, the hollow look in some of the people's eyes...   
  
Eventually, by chance or because the sight of a tavern had made her feel just a little more at home -  _this_  she knew - she'd seen this place, walked in and wandered over to the bar.   
  
She leaned there now, having taken a corner by the wall, sipping ale and keeping an eye on those that circulated the pub. A little sleazy; a little loud. Not too bad though, all things considered. She was more than a little surprised that no-one had blinked an eye at the Warden armour and the staff on her back; that made her wonder exactly what sort of types they  _usually_ got in here.  
  
The sound of creaking leather, a  _clank_  of armour, drew her attention back to the bar. A new customer arrived - dark-haired, with features that made her wonder whether she'd seen him before and a beard that obviously meant he was compensating for a weak chin. Armour, a little ostentatious for her taste but probably useful, made her look for a sword; she frowned when she didn't see one.   
  
He opened his mouth to order a drink, but spotted her watching him and raised an eyebrow. "Armoured, blue-striped, intimidating. Would you be a Warden, then?" When she returned the eyebrow with one of her own and said nothing, he added, "I mean, that was probably a little forward, but you're fairly easy to spot, with the..." He gestured to all of her. "We don't exactly get many of your sort round here." From his voice, reasonably controlled as it was, she could tell that he was already a few mugs past tipsy, and it was making him chatty. He was also Fereldan - not that much of a rarity in this city, she'd heard a few accents like his, but it was enough to make him pause.   
  
Seemingly deep in thought, he stroked that beard, and she changed her mind; there to make him look older, perhaps? Alistair had wanted to grow one for his first few months in power, only relenting on his position when she'd told him it might ruin his cute, boyish image and scare off the ladies.  
  
_"I don't_  want  _to be cute and boyish. I want to be_ imposing. _"_  
  
"You're six-two of muscle and armour, with a history in the Wardens and as a templar. You're plenty imposing. Well, until you open your mouth."  
  
"Uncalled for!"  
  
"Have you heard _yourself? But look, a man like you sometimes_  needs _cute and boyish. Try the beard when you're the aging, dignified patriarch."_  
  
"Aging? Li _-ttle problem there..."_  
  
_"Yes, Calling, I know, you can get that smug look off your face. Now shut up and get a razor."_

"You know, I've only met one Warden," the punter in front of her said. "Well, two, but one was only briefly and the other's an ex-Warden, technically, and an apostate, and..." He put an elbow on the bar and leaned on it, four fingers to his mouth. "Damn, shouldn't have said that, that was probably a bad idea, and by the way..." He frowned at her. "...do you even speak my tongue? I assume you do from the drink in your hand, but you could be here from Weisshaupt for all I know."  
  
"I do," was her quiet reply. She could handle ramblers; she'd spent years with Alistair, after all.  
  
He frowned at her. "Are you Fereldan?" he asked, and, when she nodded, he went on, "Well, that makes my life easier, and I just wanted to ask, are you familiar with the Commander at all?"  
  
The question took her off-guard; she wondered whether to be honest, but she was here to have a quiet drink, to see the city as it  _really_  was. "A little," she said tentatively, unsure where this question was going.  
  
"Is it true what they say about her? Because she's the reason I'm in the Hanged Man getting drunk far too early in the day."  
  
She took a swig of her drink, a little wary now. "That depends what you've heard about her. Good woman - or at least, I think she's trying to be - but she fucks up occasionally. Goes too easy on the mage recruits,and I think she lets the court boss her around too much. Why?"  
  
He looked at her, hard-eyed. "She as terrifying as they say she is?"  
  
She shook her head. "The stories make her sound like more of a dragon than the Archdemon." She tried not to let the bitterness creep into her voice.   
  
She'd cultivated that reputation, after all, made sure it was in place; made a few enemies along the way. At first she simply hadn't wanted to seem weak, had been human as everyone else, but sometimes she thought that she'd let the myths grow to engulf the woman underneath. She needed people who didn't see her the way Ferelden did: Alistair, who'd seen her vulnerable and in a damn  _dress_ , who'd offered her a grimy tissue and awkwardly tried to stem her tears the night before she'd killed the Archdemon; Leliana, who had sorted through the stories and selected the fiercest face of her, who told them, but didn't believe them; Dog, waiting back at the castle, a better fighter than she'd ever be.  
  
He was still trying to catch the eye of the bartender, a hand raised, but the man seemed to be willfully ignoring him. "Good. I'm meeting her tomorrow, and I'd at least like to come out of it with my spine intact..."  
  
_Oh._  So  _here_  was the formidable Champion of Kirkwall. "It'll probably go better if you aren't hungover," she told him. "Well, any  _more_  hungover, since you're already pissed as a fart."  
  
He paused, giving her a long, considering look, and after a moment he dropped his hand. He grinned at her, all white teeth against black beard. "I think I like you, Warden." He sighed. "But you do have a point there. I've tried healing spells, and even Anders can't budge the bloody things..." He turned from her, beginning to walk away, but stopped to look over his shoulder. "Be seeing you."  
  
_Oh,_  yes, she thought dryly.  _You will._  
  
He wandered out of the tavern, still muttering under his breath, and she took another swig from her cup. She had far more to tell Alistair than he'd expect.


	3. The Hanged Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Garrett met Solona.

"Take me along," Solona had said, a knife-sharp grin spreading across her face. "It'll  _kill_ her to see a mage in a position like mine."

However, now that they were at the meeting with Meredith, Solona was severely regretting her keenness. The woman was all but spitting marbles about the freeing of the Circle; sure, she was well-versed in diplomacy enough to keep it from being too obvious, knew enough not to say it out loud - but she obviously viewed people like Solona as nothing more than threats, each and every one of them: it was in her steel eyes, in the way her hand absentmindedly strayed to her sword as she talked, in the way her face was all but shouting the fact she couldn't spare a mite of respect for Alistair or what he had to say. Her goofy and motor-mouthed friend he might be, but he was also a  _king,_ and rather a fine one at that - one who had all but rescued Ferelden from ruin in the aftermath of the Blight. The Knight-Commander would do well to remember that.

She was biting her tongue - as opposed to biting Meredith - and Alistair was having obvious trouble keeping the discussion on the right side of civil, so it was rather a relief when Meredith strode off, all self-importance and clanking platemail. Alistair sighed, watching the templar and her posse go; it was obvious in the set of his shoulders that he didn't view the meeting as a success, and fair enough, really.

"King Alistair."

They both turned at the new - yet oh-so-familiar - voice, and Garrett Hawke started to continue, "Warden Comma..." He stopped. "Oh."

She smiled. "We've met."

Hawke cleared his throat into his fist, a slight pinkness spreading in what parts of his face weren't covered by that trimmed, dark beard. "Er, yes. We have."

Solona noted with interest the staff on the man's back. "The infamous Champion of Kirkwall is a mage?"

Hawke nodded. "That I am, Commander."

"I told you!" Alistair announced. "Heroism and a love of setting fire to things run in the blood." 

Solona gave him a look of  _Really?_ and noticed that, in front of them, Hawke was struggling not to hide his grin, as were his companions - the stern, warm Captain of the Guard that she had met the previous day; the pirate from Denerim, as poised and as curvaceous as ever; and the dwarf she had seen around that dive tavern, patting the locals on the back and getting drinks on the house. He... owned it? She wasn't sure. " _Thank you,_ Your Majesty," she gritted out.

He shrugged. "Happy to help."

She approached the Champion, crossed her arms and bowed at the waist. He returned the gesture, and when he rose, his eyes were warm but more than a little wary. He gave her a small, tentative smile. "Quite the dragon, messere."

She liked his boldness; she couldn't help but think that more than just magic and a proclivity for hard drinking seemed to be in the Amell blood. "Quite the talker, serah," she countered, and then she corrected him, "Solona to family." She noticed the piratess and the dwarf - Verric? Varric? - giving him surprised looks, but paid them no mind. Their family tree wasn't exactly public knowledge, and for good reason.

He nodded. "Well in that case, Solona, I'm Garrett."

"As you wish." She wondered whther she should hand the stage over to Alistair, him being the damn  _king_ and all, but when she looked over her shoulder, he just sent her an encouraging smile and gestured for her to continue. While half of her thought,  _Good man -_ there were things she needed to address - the other worried about taking the step she was about to. She squinted at Garrett (and Maker, it was still strange thinking of him as such).  "You know, you don't seem much like your letters."

He laughed sheepishly, a hand to the back of his neck. "That would be because I didn't write them." He gestured to the red-haired woman beside them. "Aveline Vallen, Captain of the Guard and a woman far better at dealing with diplomatic matters than I." Well, that explained a lot.

Aveline bowed. "Warden Commander Amell." The Captain's gaze slid past her. They had met, but the woman  wasn't acquainted with... Aveline swallowed. "Your Majesty." She dropped to one knee, bowed her head. Garrett looked at her, then hastily joined her - he was, after all, Solona supposed, still a Fereldan.

She looked over her shoulder, suppressing a laugh at Alistair's obvious, very unkingly discomfort. "Uh, there's no need," he said hastily, with a wave of his hand. "Really. I mean, we aren't in court."

Aveline looked up, seeming more than a little disbelieving, but Garrett's face reflected an utter lack of surprise. He climbed to his feet far quicker than the Guard-Captain did, and said, "If you say so, Your Majesty."

Again Alistair fought to contain a wince, and said, "Just Alistair, if you don't mind." He ignored the glare Solona sent him and the unspoken  _What have I told you?_ hanging in the air. "Makes me feel a little less like I'm expected to go around knighting things and cutting off heads  _right_  at this very moment." He became serious, his posture taller, and just for a moment he was the regal king on the Fereldan coins; he had moments of it sometimes - they were surprising, sudden and more than a little awe-inspiring.  "Speaking of which... With recent events, we've had a large influx of refugees. There's only so much we can do, but there is still a place for you in Ferelden, Champion, Guard-Captain, if you want it. If you still view it as home."

"Well,  what with the accent, the upbringing, and the fact that Kirkwallers call me 'Dog Lord' every chance I get..." Garrett sobered. "In all seriousness, yes, I do. I grew up there. But I have a life here, and have friends and family to protect. Maybe when this is all over..." His tone was less hopeful than it could have been.

"As do I, Your Majesty," Aveline agreed.

Alistair nodded."I see."

There was a moment of silence, and then Solona said to Garrett, "I'd like to propose a meeting. After all, we haven't known each other for long, and I hear I have an aunt..."

Garrett's face darkened. "She's... gone." Then he seemed to regain his usual cheer. "But yes, I'd like that. The company'd be nice."

Solona smiled. "Thank you, cousin," she replied, the word still strange on her tongue, and didn't miss the flicker of surprise that briefly crossed Garrett's face.

"Yes, well. Two nights from now, in the Hanged Man? I'm hoping I can find someone who can beat Bela at Wicked Grace. If you'll still be in Kirkwall, that is."

She had, once, back in Denerim. From the way the pirate met her eye, she obviously remembered, and was hoping to correct the matter - she gave Solona a grin that was all sex and all challenge."I'll be there," Solona said.

"His Majesty," Garrett said, seeing the man's involuntary wince and correcting himself with, "uh, Alistair, and Maker this is the oddest way I've ever met a king, is also welcome to attend."

"Exactly how many kings have you  _met,_ Hawke?" Isabela questioned him.

"Uh..." Alistair began uncertainly. He saw the look on Solona's face and said, "I'll be happy to attend, if I don't get in the way too much. I can't play cards to save my life."

"Good," said Solona. "It is a family meeting, after all - I'd rather all my family were there." Alistair beamed at her, and she returned it - Maker, she was a sap sometimes.

"With respect, Your - Alistair," Garrett said, "it isn't as if you don't have money to lose."

Alistair grinned. "I suppose you're right there."

There was a feeling of something beginning as Solona said, "Two nights from now, then?"

Garrett nodded, and he and his party turned to leave.

As the two groups went their separate ways, Alistair slung a platemailed arm round Solona's shoulder and said, "You know, this could be the start of a beautiful friendship."

"Or a diplomatic incident that gets us all into another war," she muttered gracelessly.

He quirked an amused brow at her. "See, that's what I like about you, Solona - ever the optimist."

"Ever the fool, more like," she returned, but she was grinning as the two of them walked back into Kirkwall - uncaring of decorum or formailty, preparing to play Wicked Grace with the Champion of Kirkwall and a silver-tongued pirate.

Just Alistair and Solona. Like the old days.


End file.
